Roses are Blue, 2.

[Scruff here again. Sis is away right now, trying to get us visas to India. You you've got me]

The four of us, me, Sis, the Green Man and Ms. Madison were standing in the street, looking at the dead man. Typical, I thought, a quiet evening out, and we managed to find a cafe that was about to have a murder committed outside. Give me the local chippie any day. No-one ever got murdered there.
"There's nothing we can do," the Green Man said. "Just find out who he was."
I acted at once. I don't like being overlooked, but looking like I do, it happens a lot. So I hurried up to the body and kneeled down next to it. I checked his pulse. There wasn't one. Still, I have a first aid certificate - it was an optional course at school and I'd been feeling bored when it was on.
While checking for signs of life I spotted a tailor's tab inside the man's obviously hand-made suit. Carl Petersfield.
"He's dead," I announced.
"You're not a nurse or a doctor!" someone in the crowd responded.
"She's a trained first aider," Sis replied. Good old Sis, always sticking up for me. I hurried back to her side. Sis shook her head, a smile on her face.
"Scruff, you left your shoes under the table."
"Well, I didn't have time to put them on! He's dead, but his name was Carl Petersfield."
Sis laughed.
"You checked the tailor's tab in his suit! Scruff, you're brilliant. Does anyone feel like finishing the meal?"
"We paid for it," Ms. Madison pointed out.
"Then we finish it off."
"And then back to my place," Sis said. "It's closest."
We finished our dinner and then the four of us walked back to Sis's flat. There we were greeted by eight of the cats.
"I'll give them their biscuits," Sis said. "Scruff, get that computer working. Unless the Green Man knows anything about Carl Petersfield and blue roses."
"I'm afraid I don't, Grey Girlie."
"Then it's up to Scruff and her internet skills."
I pulled off my sweater, which I had been wearing over my t-shirt and sat down at the computer.
"Scruff," Ms. Madison said, "why is your right arm still bandaged?"
"Accident. Which is NOT what killed Carl Petersfield."
"You're being evasive."
"Ms. Madison," Sis warned, "you're not her sister."
I quickly typed in Petersfield's name.
He was a rich man, head of the London and Eastern Investment Bank and a collector of rare books.
Then I typed in 'blue rose murder'.
There were two newspaper stories, one from Sweden and one from Poland. Two investment bankers shot dead in the street and a blue rose dumped on the body.
There was a pattern!"